


The Arrangement

by writeonclara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, M/M, figuring it out, until they catch feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-06-27 13:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: “We must be doing something wrong,” said Crowley, grimly determined. “There’s no way humans would be so obsessed with something so bloody awful.”Or: Four and a half times they’re rather rubbish at it and one and a half times they get it right.





	1. Chapter 1

Around 1020, they come to an Arrangement.

It was Crowley’s idea, of course. “All I’m saying,” he said, slinking across the room to drape himself across Aziraphale’s couch (well, more like a bench trying _very hard_ to be a couch, and Aziraphale liked to give credit where credit was due) like a languid panther. He was mildly drunk, obviously bored, and incredibly demonic. It was a dreadful combination, “is why not?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, suddenly finding his quill fascinating. His cheeks burnt so hot that he was fairly certain his quill would combust into ashes if it brushed against his skin. “Well,” he tried again. “It’s a bit har—it’s a bit of an effort, isn’t it?”

“This century is the pits,” complained Crowley. “And trust me, angel, I _know_ pits. I mean, just look at this place.” He waved an expressive hand. Aziraphale dutifully looked. He had to admit, his little cottage was rather—small. And dusty, which was bound to happen when you had floors made of dirt. And constantly smoky, since humans had yet to invent chimneys. Aziraphale could see his point.

“Humans seem to quite enjoy doing it, so why shouldn't we have a go?” said Crowley, lowering his hand and leaning one elbow on his knee. “Get some pleasure out of this forsaken time.”

Words like _carnal desire_ and _sins of the body_ and _original tempter_ flashed through Aziraphale’s mind. He had to wonder if he was just another one of Crowley’s _deeds_ ; a notch to put on his bedpost of evil. He could already hear him bragging to his demon friends: _oh yeah? Well, I seduced an_ angel. It made cold prickle over his skin, followed by a hot flush of preemptive shame.

Shame, because he was considering it, anyway.

“I mean,” said Crowley, earnestly. He had pushed up his darkened spectacles (“they’re called sunglasses, angel”) and was watching Aziraphale with those snake eyes of his. Even after all this time, they were impossible to read. They were the eyes of a predator. Flat. Emotionless. Or—enigmatic. Aziraphale still couldn’t put his finger on the right adjective to describe Crowley’s eyes. “Who’s to tell us we can’t?” He held up a hand. “No, don’t answer that question. But, really, who has to know?”

“I would,” said Aziraphale. “I’d have to know.”

Apart from his strange pupils and unusual iris color, what made Crowley’s eyes disconcerting was that he only blinked to make a point. Azirphale didn’t necessarily need to blink either, but he could see why the humans would be so upset about it. 

“Besides, _anyone_ could see us,” said Aziraphale, turning back to his document. 

Crowley scoffed. “Come on. You and I both know that they’ve stopped watching long ago.”

That was true. It had taken him roughly three millennia to realize that the Host had much better things to do than to constantly monitor a minor angel who sometimes tiptoed around doing things that could possibly be construed as bad.

In any event, sex wasn’t Strictly Forbidden.

Although he wasn’t entirely certain if sex was Strictly Forbidden with someone from the Other Side. It wasn’t, at least, written in any rulebook that Aziraphale had read. He had a feeling that it was one of those rules that ought to be inferred. _Thou shall not lay down with thy enemy, even if he really is an alright sort of bloke._

Crowley crossed one leg over the other. “Have you never wondered? Not even once?”

Of course he had. Humans, and all their strange quirks, had been an endless fascination to Aziraphale.

“I’ve wondered,” admitted Crowley.

“Really?” 

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I was just under the impression that you’ve, er, tempted—other humans.” Aziraphale’s voice petered out a little lamely. Best not to bring up ancient history.

“I have no interest in humans,” said Crowley, mildly offended.

“Other demons?”

Crowley didn’t say anything, and instead was _deeply_ offended.

If Crowley wasn’t interested in humans, and disgusted by other demons, and other angels were out for obvious reasons, that meant—what _did_ it mean?

“Just—me?” said Aziraphale, blankly.

“Of course,” scoffed Crowley, as if this really should have been the most obvious thing in the world. “Listen, there are demons who specialize in this sort of stuff—sex, I mean—but it isn’t really in our nature.” He lifted an expectant eyebrow at Aziraphale, but when Aziraphale just frowned blankly, he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “We come from the same stock, angel. Sex is ‘a bit of an effort’ for us as well.”

Aziraphale stared at him.

Eventually, Crowley’s posture stiffened. He appeared less like a sunbathing snake and more like a viper ready to dart away. He shifted his weight, then finally broke eye contact, glaring hard enough at a table leg that there was a real risk of it catching fire.

“It’s fine, of course, if you don’t want to—”

“I never said that,” Aziraphale interrupted.

Slowly, Crowley lifted his eyes back to Aziraphale. And then he smiled. It wasn’t crafty, or smug, or even particularly evil (except where it was always a little evil). It was small, and sort of—secret. Sweet.

“Well, then,” he said.

* * *

The sex is bloody _dreadful_.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” said Crowley, pushing himself into a seated position in Aziraphale’s—admittedly terribly uncomfortable, and oft forgot—bed.

“I believe there are far too many elbows involved,” said Aziraphale, rubbing his sternum.

“Why in the hell do humans find this so—entertaining?”

“And knees,” said Aziraphale, rubbing his thigh. He sat up as well, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“We must be doing something wrong,” said Crowley, grimly determined. “There’s no way humans would be so obsessed with something so bloody awful.”

Aziraphale glanced at him over bare shoulder, then tutted to himself and glanced at him over his _clothed_ shoulder. Crowley looked back him, long hair tousled and full of bits of hay, eyes—something. Aziraphale still couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it rather made him want to crawl back into the bed and wrap his arms and wings around the demon. 

“I’m an angel,” said Aziraphale, gently. “You’re a demon. Even if carnal desires were in our nature, we don’t match on a fundamental level.”

Crowley’s eyelashes dipped, and then he turned his head away.

It was true. It was the _truth_. And yet something that felt a lot like regret solidified into a stone in Aziraphale’s stomach, even as he stepped quietly from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

They didn’t try again until the 17th century, ten years before a certain prophetess sauntered off the mortal coil with a skirt full of gunpowder and a two finger salute.

It was too beautiful a day for a witch burning, and yet the entire town was clustered around a makeshift pyre, jeering at a certain someone tied to a stake. Crowley watched from the outskirts of the crowd, hands on his hips. Sunlight shone behind the man-shaped being, illuminating the white blond curls around his head like a halo. 

Crowley clicked his tongue and shouldered his way through the thick throng of bloodthirsty onlookers. “Excuse me, pardon me, quite sorry—” He stopped at the foot of the pyre and tipped his head back, considering the spectacle tied to the stake. “ _Seriously_.”

“I’m afraid so,” apologized Aziraphale.

“Ho!” protested one of the filthy peasants. And he really was filthy; Crowley could smell the musky, dusty, distinctly _human_ odor from here. The man pushed through the crowd to Crowley, squared his shoulders, and tightened his grip around the weapon of choice of marauding peasants everywhere: the pitchfork. Crowley had to nod with approval. There was something to be said about traditions. “I am Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer, Witchfinder Captain. Be ye Friend of this Creature most foule?”

“He be _not_ ,” chastised Aziraphale, which was both blatantly untrue and really rather hurtful. Crowley tossed a smirk at him.

“I definitely be,” said Crowley, as an aside to the peasant on his left. Then he tipped his shades down and winked a snake eye at Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer, Witchfinder Captain.

The man leapt about a meter back and flung out one hand. “W-Witch!” he shouted.

“Be careful,” said Aziraphale, alarmed, and Crowley puffed out his cheeks. Aziraphale claims they aren’t friends in one breath and then gets all worried about Crowley’s welfare and whatnot in the next. Crowley may be a demon, but that sounded a lot like friendship to him.

“Oh, don’t be such a worrywart,” said Crowley, and snapped his fingers. The peasants, who had all turned on him with bloodlust in their eyes, froze mid-step. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t do this in the first place.” 

“I just—” Aziraphale sighed. “Wanted to fly under the radar for a bit.”

“Ah.” Crowley understood. Generally speaking, neither he nor Aziraphale attracted much attention from down or up there respectively, but it was nice to fade into the background once in awhile. “That doesn’t explain how you managed to get yourself into this mess in the first place.”

Aziraphale hummed guiltily. “It was just one small miracle. Not even the Host would notice it!”

“What did you do,” said Crowley, long suffering. 

“Oh just, you know. Fixed up poor Sarah Leeds’ fractured wrist.” He leaned forward on the stake. “She’s in a delicate situation, you know.”

Crowley sighed. Really, this angel would throw away his wings for a fucking Malteser.

“Come to think of it, they may have been put off by my wards—anyway, I didn’t know you were in town,” said Aziraphale conversationally.

“Oh, you know how these things go, had some evil deeding to do and whatnot,” said Crowley, then paused meaningfully. “Well, actually, I was looking for you.”

“Why?” said the angel, suspiciously.

Crowley would roll his eyes if Aziraphale could see them. Since they were hidden by sunglasses, he instead threw his head back in affected exasperation. “Must you always have your guard up, angel?”

“Around you? Of course.”

“Hm. Fair.” Crowley tapped his fingers on his lips thoughtfully. “I was wondering about your opinion on kissing.”

“Kissing.”

“Oh, you know.” Crowley pursed his hands and made them kiss, then looked back up at Aziraphale expectantly. “Humans quite like to do it. As a, mmm, as a starter to the main course. Warm up before they go to bat.”

“It’s unsanitary,” said Aziraphale, scrunching his nose slightly.

“Well, sure, if you’re a human,” said Crowley. “But not if you’re, for instance, an ethereal being. Or an occult one.”

Aziraphale looked extremely skeptical.

“It occurs to me that we may have skipped a couple of crucial steps before getting down to business. I’ve observed that humans seem to like all that kissing business—at least, now that dental hygiene is a thing.”

“I can’t have this conversation tied to a stake,” said Aziraphale, wiggling his fingers at Crowley. They were slightly swollen and more purple than their usual plump pink. Crowley spared a glare for Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer. There was no need to tie him to the stake that tightly. “If you would be so kind as to help me—ah, thank—”

“Not another word, angel,” said Crowley, snapping up one hand. To be called _kind_ and then to be _thanked_ all in one sentence made ice skitter down his spine. He shook it off, accidentally bumping into one of the frozen peasants and rebounding off her like he’d bounced off a brick wall. “Steady on,” he told the murderous statue.

Aziraphale carefully climbed down the pyre, the sticks (at a warning glare from Crowley) dutifully not shifting under his weight. He dusted off the shoulders of his coat. It was drab for him, the sort of muddy brown that didn’t do favors for anyone’s complexion. “Now, my dear, you can’t possibly want to repeat that—that—” He looked around, then up, then said, meaningfully, “ _that._ ”

“Yes of course I want to,” Crowley snapped. “We bungled it the first time around, but I refuse to believe that humans could possibly take so much pleasure out of something so—so—”

“Bloody awful,” supplied Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” said Crowley, scathingly.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “You’re quite welcome.”

Crowley scowled at him. Even after all this time, he couldn’t tell if it was all angel foolishness, or if Aziraphale was a bit of a bastard sometimes.

“ _Anyway_ , maybe we need to kiss, first.”

“Right now?”

“Perhaps without the audience.”

Now, Crowley fully expected to be rejected. It wouldn’t be the first time Aziraphale sidestepped around one of Crowley’s more outrageous suggestions. He braced himself for impact, because although he would never admit it out loud, not to Aziraphale, and certainly not to himself, but the angel’s opinion mattered. A lot. Aside from their Arrangement, there was no one else in any of the realms who understood Crowley quite like Aziraphale did. There was no one else but Aziraphale who just really _liked_ Earth quite like Crowley did.

There was no one else but Aziraphale who had extended a wing when Crowley needed to be protected from the rain.

And if Aziraphale did reject him, then Crowley wouldn’t push. He may transform into a snake and hide underground for a couple of decades, and then maybe come back and insert himself back into Aziraphale’s life as his not-friend. Because it really wasn’t about the sex, was it?

“I’ve a cottage down the road,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley, blankly. Then it clicked. “Oh! Uh, right—lead the way.”

He trailed after Aziraphale, wondering about his luck. Certainly no one up there was looking out for him, and yet he couldn’t help but to feel rather—rather—well, blessed wasn’t quite the right word, of course, and cursed couldn’t really apply to Aziraphale. He was just damned lucky. That’s what he was.

He glanced over his shoulder where the peasants were still mid-lunge, then shrugged to himself. He’d unfreeze them. Eventually.

* * *

Aziraphale’s cottage was a huge upgrade from the hovel he’d been living in during the 11th century, yet still on the smaller side, and somehow even more crowded, what with the stacks of books that were vying for space on all available flat surfaces.

“Alright,” said Aziraphale, turning to him. “So how do we do this?”

Crowley shut the door behind him, resting his hands flat against the wood. They watched each other like two animals sizing the other up, silent, waiting.

Aziraphale broke first. He fluttered his hands for a moment, then said, “Tea. You’ll probably want some tea first before we get on with all this kissing business. I’ll just—”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his coat pocket. Then he took the angel’s hand and stared deeply into his eyes.

“What are you doing?” asked Aziraphale.

“No idea,” said Crowley, then leaned down, and pressed their lips together.

They stood there for a long moment. Then they drew back.

“Hm,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley understood exactly what he meant.

“And how long are we supposed to do that for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Crowley. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes?” repeated Aziraphale, dubiously. “Well, alright.”

They pressed their lips together. Fifteen minutes later, they stepped back.

“And now we have sex?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley nodded. Truthfully, he was a little disappointed with this whole kissing lark. He didn’t want to bring it up, though, since it had been his idea. But perhaps it triggered something in these human bodies that made sex more enjoyable.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.

* * *

The sex _is_ better. Or at least, it’s not as dreadful. It’s just sort of—rubbish.

* * *

“I don’t get it,” said Crowley, smacking both his hands on the bed. 

Aziraphale shifted slightly, grimacing. They’d switched positions this time, but it hadn’t done much to help. “I suppose the kissing did make it slightly better.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard for us to figure it out,” complained Crowley.

“Well, you know what they say. ‘Practice makes perfect’.”

Crowley stared at him for so long that Aziraphale pushed himself up on one arm to glare at him. “What?” he demanded, red pricking up his neck and to his cheeks.

“I’ll remember you said that,” said Crowley. Then he lunged up, pressed a searing, open-mouthed kiss to Aziraphale’s slightly parted lips, and disappeared.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale spent the next two centuries observing. Preferring interactions of the literary kind, he had never paid all that much attention to how humans engaged with one another. Now when he took a turn around the Park, he paid keen attention to how couples interacted. He noticed how they touched one another, or when their smiles lingered, or the way a loving pair turned their bodies towards each other, drawn into each other’s orbits.

Intimate, without being obvious. 

He shored up these observations for years, until one day Crowley sauntered into his bookshop, sweeping off his curly-brimmed beaver, and then, after quickly glancing around the room, shucking off his sunglasses.

Aziraphale considered him considering the bookshop. Crowley had his hands on his hips and a slight smile curling at the corners of his mouth. He skimmed over the mismatched pile of books in the center display, his lips twitching when he spotted Charles Darwin’s _The Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms, with Observations on their Habits_ stacked atop _A Tale of Two Cities_ , before his gaze traveled up to the ceiling, over the dusty fixtures and stubby candles that seemed perpetually on the brink of needing to be replaced, and then back to Aziraphale. Those eyes of his—Aziraphale had no idea how he could have ever been so wrong about a pair of eyes before. Rather than being flat and reptilian, Crowley’s eyes were brimful of emotions: a bit of wonder, a lot of amusement, and maybe even a smidgen of affection. 

_I see,_ thought Aziraphale, circling around the counter.

“Well well well,” said Crowley, turning his grin on Aziraphale. Curiously, Aziraphale’s heart thumped hard in response. “So this is AZ FELL AND Co. Who’s the AND Co.?”

Aziraphale smiled back. “Oh, you know. My ‘associates’.” 

“Lady Madeira and Sir Sauvignon?”

“Just so.”

“Really love what you’ve done with the place,” said Crowley, looking at Aziraphale with those laughing eyes of his. “Very dreary. A bit like the French catacombs. Throw up a couple of skeletons and—and—”

Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s hand.

“Uh,” said Crowley.

“It’s good to see you, my dear,” said Aziraphale earnestly.

Crowley froze.

Hm. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right. He drew up a memory of a man holding his wife’s hand, and slowly swept his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley let out a strangled noise.

“I really have missed you so,” said Aziraphale. He hesitated. Then he reached up with his free hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face, caressing one sharp cheekbone with his thumb. 

It was pathetically true, although they _had_ seen each other within the last ten years, when Crowley had swept in and heroically saved him from being violently discorporated, and then had gone on to also save his books. Aziraphale had rather thought they were going to end the night back in Aziraphale’s bed—had even hoped, a little—but instead Crowley had waggled his fingers in goodbye and had sauntered off into the night.

“Ngk,” said Crowley, his eyes going impossibly wider. Almost instinctively, he swayed closer to Aziraphale, turning his face into his hand.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes, like the lovers in the Park did, and was subsequently trapped by the intent he found there. His breath caught oddly in his chest, then stuttered back out when Crowley reached up to brush a feather light touch over the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. There was a swooping sensation in his stomach, like the first time he went into free fall while flying. And then the feeling burst and flopped around like a flock of small birds that had got into the Merlot.

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale. “This is new.”

They never touched like this. The few times they had slept together had been very by the book, as if they were following an instruction manual. Step one, disrobe, step two—well, you get the gist. It made a difference, touching. Aziraphale slid his hand down to cup the crook of Crowley’s neck, feeling the erratic flutter of his pulse, and then the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. They were standing quite close now.

“A-Aziraphale, what—” said Crowley, stammering slightly.

“This is how lovers do it,” said Aziraphale hesitated slightly. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh,” said Crowley, and then fisted the front of his shirt and yanked him into a kiss.

* * *

The third time wasn’t _bad_ , just a little, ah, quick. They didn’t even make it to a bed. They didn’t even make it out of their _clothing_.

* * *

They lay in silence for several minutes, panting quietly. Crowley was staring up at the ceiling, an unreadable expression on his face. If Aziraphale had to guess, he’d say he looked a trifle—stunned. As if someone had snuck up and clubbed him across the back of his head.

“Do _not_ say a thing,” said Crowley. A smudge of dust striped one of his cheeks. Aziraphale wanted to wipe it away, but something in Crowley’s eyes made him hesitate. Instead, he reached up to straighten his own hair. 

“My dear—” said Aziraphale, not understanding. Frankly, he had rather enjoyed himself for those handful of frantic minutes. _Ah, we’re really getting the hang of this,_ he’d thought a little proudly. He was even thinking that they could maybe go for a second round, perhaps with less clothing and more bedding. He’d furnished the upstairs rooms specifically for this, after all.

“Ah ah! Zip it, angel.” Crowley sprang to his feet, miraculously fully clothed. “We don’t need to talk about this ever again.”

“But—” said Aziraphale, wounded. Oh dear. He hadn’t intended to offend the demon. Pride really did cometh before the fall. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No! No.” Crowley shot a quick glance down at Aziraphale, then fumbled his sunglasses over his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I just—I’ve got to go.”

“But—” said Aziraphale again, reaching out a hand. Too late. Crowley was already gone, out the front door and into the street.

Aziraphale lowered his arm, then sank back to the ground with an irritated sigh. He folded his hands on his stomach, considering the flash of emotion he’d caught in Crowley’s eyes before he covered them with his sunglasses.

Shame. 

It wasn’t something Aziraphale had often felt, but it had shone clearly in those yellow depths.

Did that mean Crowley had been _ashamed_ to be with him?

* * *

Aziraphale never did get to ask. The next time they saw each other, Crowley asked him for holy water. 

They didn’t speak for some time after that.


End file.
